"It was the work of the Lady Ursula's fingers," said Lady C——, "as every thing else you see here was created by her."
"Is she now living?" asked Edith, very innocently.
"Alas! no, my dear; hers was a sad fate; but her story is too long for the dining hour;" and as dinner was soon over, they returned to the other apartment.
Edith longed for a ramble in the garden. When she returned, the horses were at the door, and she took a reluctant leave, for she had not heard the story of the Lady Ursula.
As soon as they had turned their horses' heads outside the iron gate, Edith began her eager questions:
"Who was that beautiful woman, the original of the portrait? Where did she live? How did she die? What was her fate?" Her father smiled, and related the following particulars, which deserve another chapter.
CHAPTER VII.
"Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth, that soonest pass away.
Even love, long tried, and cherished long,
Becomes more tender, and more strong,
At thought of that insatiate grave
From which its yearnings cannot save.
"But where is she, who, at this calm hour,
Watched his coming to see?
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower:
He calls,—but he only hears on the flower
The hum of the laden bee."